


Sea of Sand

by ilokheimsins



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, implied abuse/sexual abuse, inception reverse bang challenge, mal being a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilokheimsins/pseuds/ilokheimsins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When dreamshare was young, it was just Arthur and Mal exploring their imaginations in the Miles' foyer. So when Miles asks them to do a delivery job, they think it's simple. And it was supposed to be. Arthur and Mal were supposed to skirt through unnoticed, playing up the college student angle. And it all goes to shit spectacularly quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea of Sand

            When Arthur opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a ceiling that’s definitely not his.  The first thing he hears is Mal’s elegant French, whittled into sharp knives, flaying insults and disparaging comments towards something he can neither see nor hear.  There’s a brief pause in her tirade and something shatters.

            _Glass, likely expensive, held flowers, judging by the sound of splashing water_.

            He tries to sit up, but nothing will move.  His arms feels heavier than lead and he can’t particularly feel the rest of himself.  For one hysterical moment, Arthur thinks that he might just be a head and arms, but out of the edges of his vision, he can see his toes.  So he closes his eyes again and lets himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of Mal’s beautifully vicious words.

***

            The next time he comes to, it’s with gasping pants and rivulets of sweat cascading down his forehead.  He can’t remember where he is, but he knows that it’s not good.  Arthur heaves himself out of the bed and scrambles to find his position in the dark.  A light flares to life in the corner and reveals Mal, who looks sleepy, angry, and motherly all at once.  All the fight drains out of Arthur and he sinks back down onto his own mattress, which, now that he’s awake, is horribly uncomfortable.

            “What happened?”

            “Mon petit oiseau,” She yawns, “I will tell you in the morning.  I have no mind now to explain with and you have none to listen with.”

            With that, she turns over and flicks off the light, leaving Arthur to contemplate her words.  He shuffles himself back into the bed and spends eons squirming until he deems himself in a suitably comfortable position.  And then he takes Mal’s advice and tries to go back to sleep.

***

            The third time he wakes up, it’s because Mal is cursing violently enough to wake the dead.  But this time Arthur has enough possession of his faculties to pull himself into a sitting (slumping, if he were feeling accurate) position and rub blearily at his eyes.

            Mal is dressed in naught more than a single black dress, elegant in its simplicity and obviously the victim of too many nights of wear.  She spits out insults rapidly, barely pausing for breath, her eyes glowing.  The sun slanting through the dingy, little window in the upper corner of their room hits her hair at the right angle to give it a glow.  Privately, Arthur thinks she looks like an avenging angel and feels the tiniest bit sorry for the man on the end of her tirade.

            This feeling evaporates as soon as Mal shrieks, “You will never have Arthur!” and slams the door in the man’s face.

            She turns around and sees Arthur blinking at her.  Like if he stares at her long enough, he’ll magically leech whatever the fuck’s happening from her mind.  Sadly, this does not work as well as Arthur thinks it should.  But Mal takes pity on him and practically floats to his side.  She settles onto the lumpy, overly hard mattress next to him and takes his hand.

            “What do you remember about the job?”  She asks.  There’s worry coloring her tone and Arthur wrinkles his brow.  He’s about to respond with a snarky “everything” when he stops and thinks about it.  What does he remember?

            “I remember Professor Miles telling us this would be dangerous but it was critical.  I remember the plane ride and too much vodka,” He pauses while Mal chuckles, “I remember being hot and sweaty and sand everywhere.  And that’s it?”

            Mal catches the way he ends in a question.  The truth is, Arthur can’t remember anything beyond landing in the desert and finding out that sand gets in everything.  Every.  Single.  Damned.  Thing.  Like his underwear, for example.

            “We were captured on our way to the rendezvous point.  They want us to make dreamshare a weapon for them.  But they have never come to blows with a French woman before,” Mal says, her voice smug.  Then her face closes off and Arthur watches her eyes harden.

            “And if they think that they can simply snatch you away from me,” Mal hisses, “I will kill them.”

            Arthur shudders; he can feel the truth behind Mal’s words, the conviction in them.

            “I won’t let them take me away,” Arthur mumbles, “And I will kill anyone who comes to try and take you.”

            “Good,” Mal brightens up immediately and springs up from the bed, “Now, we make escape plans.”

***

            The fourth time Arthur wakes up, it’s because someone’s forced a gag down on him and his military training is telling him to wake up but wait for an attack opportunity.  So he waits until the men back away slightly and then he lashes out.  The nearest of the assailants goes down with a kick to the chin and Arthur rolls off the bed after him, feels a flicker of satisfaction when the assailant grunts under his weight.  He rolls onto his feet and springs forward, catching his elbow in the small of the other man’s back.  The man just turns and backhands Arthur heavily enough to spark small white stars in his vision.

            He uses the momentum to spin and slam his foot into the other man.  Arthur barely has time to brace himself before the man wraps a massive hand around his ankle and throws him across the room.    He collides with the wall and groans.  There’s going to be an impressive bruise on his back in the morning.  The man is coming closer and Arthur darts out of the way just as a massive foot comes swinging toward him.  He darts over to Mal’s bed and freezes.  It’s empty, bedcovers trailing onto the floor.  There’s a ragged length of black hanging off the edge of the cot and Arthur sees red.  Arthur barely has time to turn and lash out haphazardly before his opponent is taking Arthur’s head in hand and cracking it against the bar of Mal’s cot.

***

            Eames chews at his forefinger nervously, worrying a hangnail with his canines.  Keuper jabs him in the side with the point of his elbow and side eyes him.  He jerks his head towards Jerah, their leader.  Jerah stands at the front of the massive room and raises his fist to the ceiling.  His words boom across the room, some bullshit meant to inspire the masses.  But Eames leans back in his alcove, he doesn’t care about what Jerah has to say.  Eames is a mercenary, hired from the gambling dens.  He doesn’t care about what Jerah does as long as he gets paid.

            Then the word “dreamshare” comes through and Eames perks up.  There have been whispers about this interesting new technology, something that will let you walk the dreams of others.  There is even talk about using it to control others by manipulating their minds.  And Eames?  Eames simply wants to steal it and play.  Possibly use it to steal things.  Because, before Eames is a mercenary, he is a thief.

            But that takes careful planning and Eames is going to need to bide his time carefully.  It hasn’t escaped his notice that two people have been captured recently.  He closes his eyes and brings them to the front of his mind:  the beautiful, brunette woman whose eyes had blazed like a tigress in hunt and the young man.  Eames frowns, he can’t recall much about the young man.  Then again, Eames surmises, it’s because the lad had been draped over Dover’s shoulder and likely unconscious.

            No, definitely unconscious, Eames decides.  Anyone awake in such close proximity to Dover would immediately put up a fuss due to the smell.  And now that Jerah has mentioned dreamshare so close to their arrival, Eames is sure that they have something to do with it.  Now all he has to do is find the pair and tread carefully.

***

            Arthur is beginning to think that the best solution to having a shitty life is to just sleep forever.  Actually though.  Everything aches.  His back feels like someone rammed a truck into it and nothing else will move without protest.   Arthur can’t even get his head off the pillow without miniature dwarves trying to excavate the inside of his skull.  The first time he tries, the pounding gets so bad he nearly vomits.  He snuggles back down into the pillow and revels in the darkness.  Blessed, blessed darkness.

            And then he bolts straight upright.  Mal got taken away and—that’s as far as his thoughts go before Arthur clutches his head and swears violently.  The throbbing beats a rhythm of pain through his skull and tears leak from the corners of his eyes.  He groans and curls into himself, bracing his head against his knees.  He sits there and wishes Mal would come sweeping in with chamomile tea and Advil.  He wishes he and Mal were sitting back in Paris experimenting with building charming little cafés and enormous libraries.  Most of all, Arthur wishes Mal were just beside him.

            The door swings open and Arthur glares weakly through his fringe.  The man in the doorway laughs and comes closer.  Arthur’s pretty much certain that if he tries to stand up and fight, he’ll puke instead, so he stays curled up.  He flinches when the man reaches out a hand and runs it through his hair and then pulls Arthur’s head back.  Pain surges through his head and he gasps for air, choking on the agony locking his throat shut.

            “Poor kitten,” The man says, “Separated from the protective wolf.  Such a pity she didn’t want to cooperate.  So we took her from you.”

            His lips stretch to form a predatory grin, “We are going to have a lot of fun, my beautiful one.”

            Arthur bites his lips to keep from spitting out insults like he wants and the man lets him go.  He leaves Arthur gasping in pain and struggling to keep his stomach from heaving.  The door closes with a definitive sound and Arthur sinks into the bed, pressing his hands hard against his temples.  He buries his head into the pillow and lets the cool feeling seep into his head and calm the throbbing.

***

            Eames figures out where they’re holding the woman fairly quickly.  And, in all honesty, Eames is pretty sure a blind man could have, what with the way she cuts loose with a tirade of insults in French and flings her metal bowl at whoever comes to take it away when it’s empty.  She also has impeccable aim, out of the twelve times she’s been fed so far, she’s only missed twice.  Eames is very impressed.  Eames is also the only one who’s managed to dodge her, so he’s been put on guard duty.

            “Long day isn’t it,” He says.

            Mal turns to look at him, eyes steely, chin high, shoulders down, and hisses out an absolutely despicable insult.  Eames is taken aback and delighted at the same time.  The last time he’d heard that sort of language was down in the shithole bars in the grittiest cities in Senegal.

            “Now where does a proper young lady learn language like that?”

            “From my father,” She answers.  Eames has her interest now, in a ‘you’ve got seconds to make yourself entertaining if you want my attention’ way.

            “Sailor?”

            “No.”

            “Army?”

            “No.”

            A bored look crosses her face and she makes to turn around again, likely about to break some other piece of the equipment that’s in there with her.  Eames thinks hastily.  The woman is obviously upper class and carries the accent of one whose first language is Parisian French.  Eames gives up and says the first thing that comes to mind.

            “University professor then.”

            The woman turns back to him, amusement flickering across her features.

            “Oh, do tell how you figured that out.”

            “I didn’t, I guessed,” Eames answers sheepishly.

            “Then you have extraordinary luck,” She says.  For a moment, she simply looks him over and then extends a delicate hand through the bars of the window.

            “I am Mallorie, though you may call me Mal,” She says imperiously, as if she is doing Eames a favor.

            “Well Mallorie—”

            “No,” Mal wags her forefinger in Eames’ face, “Mal.  Mallorie is a name far too old for a woman of my age.”

            “Mal then,” Eames takes Mal’s proffered hand and kisses the back of it, “I’m Eames.”

            “Like the chair.”

            “Yes,” Eames sighs, “Like the chair.”

            “So long as you do not forget that I will tease you about it for the rest of our acquaintance, we shall get on spectacularly,” Mal says.  A smile crosses her features and she withdraws her hand.

            “Where’s the lad who came with you?”

            “I don’t know,” Mal seethes.  She clutches at the bars hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

            “But if they have done anything to Arthur, I will lay waste to them all,” She continues.

            Eames doesn’t doubt her for a moment.

***

            It takes Jerah two days to figure out the Arthur is not some delicate piece of porcelain.  It takes him another three to understand that Arthur will lash out whenever he’s being forced to do something he really doesn’t want to, such as sucking Jerah’s cock.  It takes Jerah another day to bring out the cuffs and a belt.

            By the time he leaves, Arthur is sniffling into his pillow and gulping down pained sounds.  His back feels like it’s on fire and his shoulders feel like they’ll pop out of their sockets any moment now.  There’s nothing he wants more than Mal to soothe his aches, to let him sleep without worry.

            But no, instead, he gets a burly, tattooed guard coming in through the door.  Arthur insults him in his head.  Though he will grudgingly admit that the guard is exactly his type and given pretty much any other circumstance, Arthur would have definitely gone for him.  However, this isn’t any other situation, so Arthur settles for glaring.

***

            When Jerah told Eames to bring salve to his new pet, Eames nearly whooped and ran back to Mal to tell her the good news.  But he maintained composure and saved his celebration for the halls.

            But now, looking at the young man trying to shoot laser beams with his eyes, Eames suddenly doesn’t want to tell Mal anything.  The young man (Arthur, Mal’s voice corrects) is chained up and has clearly been beaten.  Eames closes the door and moves closer, one hand out in front of him with the salve bowl tipped so that Arthur can clearly see the contents.

            He comes to a standstill when Arthur bares his teeth.  It takes Arthur a few moments, but finally he nods.

            “I’m Eames, darling,” He says, “I’m just going to put this on you and hopefully you’ll feel a bit better.”

            “I’m not your darling.”

            “Pet, kitten, petit oiseau?” Eames asks.

            Arthur’s shoulders stiffen at the last one and Eames pats him in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

            “Mal told me a lot about you.  About you two and your job.”

            “Where is Mal?” Arthur cranes his neck to look at Eames.

            “She’s being held in a cell nearby actually, pet,” Eames says, “Throws her empty bowl at everyone who comes to fetch it.”

            “She’s alright?”

            “Yes,” Eames slicks the salve over Arthur’s largest bruises, “She’s doing better than you are.  They’re using you to threaten her into building them a dreamshare machine.  Nasty methodology.”

            “Let me go,” Arthur begs, “Just let me see her.”

            “I can’t,” Eames says, lets apology seep into his voice.

            Arthur looks away, frustration tightening his face.

            “But I suppose if I were to accidentally drop a lock picking pin in your hands, there’d be nothing to do about it.”

            Arthur’s face lights up brilliantly and then falls.

            “I, um, never really learned how to pick a lock,” He mumbles.

            “Quite simple, especially with these types,” Eames says, “Stick the pin in and toggle until it clicks.  I believe you’re quite capable of that.”

            He slathers one more layer of salve on Arthur’s back and pulls out a bag from under his vest.  Eames sets it down next to Arthur’s head.

            “Clothes, can’t have you wandering naked, now can we?”

            Arthur rolls his eyes, “No, guess we can’t.”

            “And now, the pin,” Eames says, almost makes a ceremony out of dropping the little thing into Arthur’s waiting palm.

            Eames is about to close the door when he hears Arthur thank him.  He gives Arthur a cheeky grin and a wink before shutting the door firmly.

***

            Keuper nearly bowls him over in the breakfast line.  His eyes are wide and frantic as he shakes Eames back and forth.

            “They escaped.  Don’t know how.  Somehow they got out and stole a sand bike.”

            “I’m sure Jerah is furious,” Eames inspects the potatoes critically before helping himself to them.

            “He’s beyond furious.”

            “Just follow his orders to the letter and it should blow over,” Eames advises as he takes a strip of something that he thinks is meat.

            “You didn’t let him go did you?” Keuper whispers after looking around.

            “Don’t be daft, you really think I want to be on the wrong end of Jerah?”

            “Well no, but—”

            “No, no, there is no but.  Now sit and eat your potatoes.”

            Keuper turns away, mumbling.  But Eames allows himself a small smile as he looks out the window at the endless sand.  And if anyone asks, Eames simply tells them that today’s potatoes are especially good.

***

            The next time Eames sees Arthur is nearly fifteen years later.

            At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating from all the smoke he’s inhaled.  Arthur can’t possibly be here.  Can’t possibly be dressed in form fitting trousers and a well cut suit that actually complement the body they encase.  Can’t possibly be firing a gun with the ease, and accuracy, of a trained hitman.  Can’t possibly be here.

            But it is.  And when Arthur turns to offer him a hand, a smile crinkles the edges of his eyes.

            “Mr. Eames.”

            “Arthur.”

            Eames pauses and then narrows his eyes.

            “You’re a figment of my smoke-addled imagination.  Arthur should be off in Paris talking boys with Mal, not shooting thugs.”

            “I do talk boys with Mal, it just so happens that I’ve added shooting thugs to my glowing repertoire.”

            “Figment of my imagination,” Eames insists.

            “Would a figment of your imagination do this?” Arthur leans in and kisses Eames.  His lips are warm and soft, pliable.  And, imagination be damned, Eames is going to take advantage of this.  He presses forward, delights in the way Arthur opens up and teases with his tongue.  But eventually, sooner rather than later what with the smoke, they back away from each other and pant for air.

            “Yes, I think a figment of my imagination would do that.”

            “What else would a figment of your imagination do?”

            “All sorts of filthy things, pet,” Eames gives Arthur a wicked grin.

            “Well then, you’ll have to be alive to see if it’s all real, don’t you?”

            “I suppose, if I must,” Eames pouts and smirks when he sees the way Arthur’s eyes zero in on his lips.

            “Let me save you this time,” Arthur says, standing and offering Eames a hand.

            “No lock pick?”

            “No, we just run.”

            “I’m afraid I’m not very good at running.”

            “Well then, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers against Eames’ ear, “Catch me if you can.”

            With that, Arthur takes off, his eyes blazing with childish challenge.

            “It doesn’t count as saving me if you take off before helping!” Eames says, but he starts running anyway.

            His only response is Arthur’s laugh, brilliant and clear and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for I-Reverse Bang's challenge. Thanks to the lovely Adri for letting me rant plotlines at her at 3 am in the morning and putting up with my constant need to restart the story when I feel it's not going the right way.


End file.
